


Hot Potato

by eigengrau



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Overheating, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:51:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/eigengrau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur insists on wearing a three-piece suit, even in 100-degree weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Potato

It's hot.

 

Really, really, oppressively hot.

 

They're stuck in a tiny little warehouse in Mexico, partly because the job is there, but mostly because after the unfortunate incident involving Ariadne, Eames, and a flamethrower, they can no longer return to the Paris location that has become their base of operations.

 

Almost everyone has had the common sense to strip down- some reluctantly, like Yusuf (who is looking distinctly self-conscious in an off-white t-shirt) and some not-so-reluctantly, like Eames (who is looking distinctly proud of himself in a dangerously low-slung pair of jeans and not much else). The only person who isn't half naked, in fact, is Arthur.

 

Arthur has been here for two days now. He's been analyzing data, and when Cobb got in first thing in the morning he was still there, bent over his desk and sweating like a pig through his suit jacket. It's almost five in the afternoon, now, and he hasn't eaten, drunk, or looked up in at least seven hours. He loosened his tasteful tie once, but that was the extent of his dressing down.

 

Time passes. At six thirty Yusuf goes back to the hotel soon followed by Ariadne. Cobb leaves a half hour later, gesturing apologetically to his cell phone and talking about how he has to call his kids to say goodnight. Eames nods and leans back against his chair. This isn't the extractor's first job since his return to the US, but it's the longest time since then that he's been away from his recently reclaimed family. It's sort of cute, actually.

 

Eames doesn't really have any more work to do, but he's staying behind anyway. He wants to make sure Arthur goes back to the hotel tonight. It isn't healthy to work so long and so hard, especially not in this heat, and not in a three-piece suit. Though he'd be lying if the way Arthur's shirt stuck to his skin wasn't a little tantalizing.

 

Eames is most certainly not playing Angry Birds on his iPhone when he hears the crash and the thump that follows it, but when he spins around in his swivel chair, gun drawn, the only thing he sees is an office chair lying on it's side and a point man lying on the floor in a heap.

 

He curses and rushes over and Arthur is out cold, his skin burning to the touch and his clothes soaked through with sweat, though he doesn’t seem to be producing it anymore. His breathing is shallow; his face is red, and there’s a bump growing on his brow where he must have hit his head on the desk. Eames knows the signs of heat illness- living in Africa will do that to a person- and he kicks himself internally for not noticing it sooner. All the coffee Arthur’s been drinking to stay awake can’t have helped- the caffeine will have only made things worse, in fact.

 

Eames raises his eyes to heaven, mutters a hasty apology to the unconscious point man, and begins to undress him. The tie goes first, already loose and half-off, though Eames still fumbles with the knot. Next are the waistcoat and the shirt, which are thrown across the room unceremoniously. Eames’ eyes are drawn to the pale, toned expanse of Arthur’s torso, and he feels automatically guilty for oogling an unconscious man. He unbuckles Arthur’s belt, slipping it off before undoing his pants. He can already feel the bruises Arthur is going to leave on his jaw when he wakes up and finds out that Eames saw him in his underwear. For such a slim man, he packs a hell of a punch.

 

Eames slips off Arthur’s shoes and socks and drags him into the tiny, cramped broom closet that serves as this warehouse’s bathroom. They’ve added a toilet in the corner and a small sink, but Eames’ focus is on the bare concrete square that serves as a shower. He lifts Arthur, wrapping the unconscious point man’s arms around his neck and hoisting him, holding him up in a weird sort of hug. His head lolls back and Eames pushes it forward gently, not wanting to hurt his neck. Maneuvering awkwardly around the limp form he turns the knob on the wall, letting loose a burst of cold water from the showerhead. It rains down on them hard, the shower designed to get rid of chemicals and not to provide a gently bath, but it’s cool (not too cold- Eames doesn’t want to cause vasoconstriction), and that’s all they need right now. The gel washes out of Arthur’s hair under the pounding spray and it flops down over his face, dripping onto Eames’. He’s soaked, and he realizes it’s probably a good thing that it’s been so hot, or he would have been ruining a perfectly good suit.

 

Arthur stirs, groaning softly, his body going tense. Eames blinks at him.

 

“Are you awake?”

 

Arthur doesn’t respond, but he relaxes against Eames’ chest. Eames nudges him gently.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Where ‘m I?” Arthur mumbles. He opens his eyes and glances around, looking confused and vulnerable. It’s extremely disconcerting.

 

“At the warehouse. In the shower.” Eames frowns. “You passed out.”

 

Arthur closes his eyes again. “Can you take me to the hospital?”

 

“Uh… sure. Yeah, of course.” Eames maneuvers the point man so that he’s sitting down under the shower, which is still on. “I’ll call the ambulance.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Eames comes back a minute later. He’s put his t-shirt back on and it’s sticking to his wet skin, and he’s holding a glass of water.

 

“They should be here soon.” He kneels beside Arthur and hands him the glass. “Don’t drink too fast, it’s not good for you.”

 

Arthur glares weakly, taking the glass. “I know. I HAVE taken first aid classes, Eames.”

 

“You’re well enough to be rude, I see.”

 

Arthur looks at the floor, taking a sip of the water. “Sorry.” He puts the glass down and curls his knees up, lowering his head. “I’m really dizzy.”

 

“Hey,” Eames moves closer, wrapping an arm around him supportively. “You’re gonna be fine. Just breath and keep drinking, the ambulance will be here any minute.”

 

As if on cue, they hear sirens wailing not far off. Arthur’s head bucks up and he looks panicked.

 

“The PASIV!”

 

Eames strokes his back. “I hid it, don’t worry. I shoved everything incriminating into the storage closet.”

 

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.” His head drops back down to nestle in Eames’ neck. “I’m tired.”

 

“You’re sick.”

 

“Dom is going to kill me.”

 

Eames grins. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”

 

As the EMTs rush in, Arthur shoots Eames a sour look. “I don’t need you to fight my battles, Mr. Eames.”

 

They load him onto a stretcher and Eames realizes that he’s holding the point man’s hand. He squeezes it once and lets go.

 

“I know.” He says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

 

They load him into the back, and one of the EMTs comes up to Eames. He smiles.

 

“Él estara bien. Vemos esta clase de cosa todo el tiempo.” (“He should be fine. We see this sort of thing all the time.”) The EMT nods. “Usted hizo la cosa correcta.” (“You did the right thing.”)

  
“Gracias.” Eames shoves his hands into his wet pockets. “¿Puedo ir con él?” (“Can I go with him?”)

  
“Perdon, no puede. Pero usted puede venir a recogerlo - lo descargarán probablemente en algunas horas.” (“No, sorry. But you can come pick him up- he'll probably be discharged in a few hours.”)

 

 

Eames watches out the window as they drove away, then grabs his backpack and starts out towards the hospital.

 

It’s dark when they leave the hospital. Arthur is wearing borrowed sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a pair of cheap plastic flip-flops that Eames picked up off a street vendor. Eames has a rental car that he’s only been using to carry supplies in so far, and he has to sweep junk into the back to clear a place for Arthur to sit.

 

Arthur looks- and is- exhausted. He leans back against the seat as Eames drives to the hotel, staring out at the streetlights as they flash past. Eames has to clear his throat to jolt him awake when they arrive.

 

He doesn’t protest when Eames helps him into the lobby, or when the elevator goes to the fifth floor instead of the seventh. He stays silent as they shuffle down the hallway to Eames’ room and as Eames fumbles with his keycard before letting them in.

 

The hotel is thankfully air conditioned, and the room is cool and comfortable. Arthur flops down on Eames’ bed, his head lolling on the pillow. Eames lingers by the door.

 

Arthur’s eyes are closed, but he pats the bed beside him. “Sit down.” Eames complies, removing his shoes and socks. Arthur kicks off his flip-flops and curls into a ball, shifting closer to the forger. Eames reaches down hesitantly and pets Arthur’s hair, which is soft and loose without gel. He sighs.

 

Eames is almost asleep, and he’s sure Arthur is, when he hears him mumble a quiet “Thank you,” into the sheets. He smiles and drifts off, his hand still carding through the point man’s hair.

 

 

 

Lights streams through the open blinds, hitting Eames squarely in the face and shaking him out of sleep. He groans and attempts to roll over and away from the invasive sun.

 

On his other side, Arthur is staring at him.

 

The point man is propped up on top of the sheets, his chin resting on his palm. He gazes at Eames seriously, unsmilingly, his hair mussed and sticking up in three separate places.

 

“You saw me in my underwear.”

 

“Um…” Eames voice is hoarse from sleep, and he’s still groggy. It’s too early in the morning for higher functions like sentence articulation or basic thought. “…Yes, I did.”

 

“I don’t know how I feel about that.” Arthur, of course, is perfectly awake. He looks down at Eames, frowning. “But I owe you thanks.”

 

Eames blinks. “Did you seriously just say that?”

 

“Don’t make me take it back.” He glares, but it’s soft around the edges. “Seriously. If you hadn’t been there when I passed out, I’d probably still be broiling on the floor of the warehouse.”

 

Eames chalks it up to his early-morning addled brain that he suddenly gets a mental image of a fried egg in a three-piece suit.  He shakes his head to get rid of it.

 

“Don’t mention it, darling.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t just let you lie there, could I?”

 

“No, I guess not.” Arthur cocks his head slightly. “However, I should probably thank you.”

 

“You just did.”

 

“No, I mean…” Arthur looks frustrated. “I should repay you.”

 

“Really, it’s fine.”

 

Arthur groans. “Eames…”

 

The forger lets out a rush of breath as the point man’s hand finds it’s way under the bedsheets and onto Eames’ crotch. “Oh.”

 

“Mmm.” Arthur hums under his breath, squeezing gently. Eames gasps.

 

“Pinch me, darling. My life has suddenly turned into a bad porno.”

 

Arthur’s free hand slaps him on the arm. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” He leans over and pressed his lips to Eames’. The kiss is dry, and both of their mouths stay closed, mostly to avoid morning breath. However, Eames is the last person to complain.

 

Arthur latches on to his neck, biting and sucking gently as his hand moves against Eames. The forger bucks up into the touch, his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, bunching up the cotton t-shirt in his fists. Arthur undoes his zipper painfully slowly, shimmying out of his own loose sweatpants and pressing their bodies together. They grind against each other, Arthur’s face buried in Eames’ neck to stifle his groans and Eames hands migrating down to grab the point man’s thighs, holding him close.

 

Arthur muffles a cry against Eames’ collar and Eames gapes as they jerk together hastily. Their bodies relax, slowly, coming down from their high together. Arthur rolls off, grabbing a handful of tissues from the dispenser by the bed and cleaning them off quickly and efficiently. He yanks his pants back up and lies down beside Eames, a contented smile on his face.

 

Eames, for his part, is still in shock. He did not expect to be woken up this way, and he desperately needs a cigarette, but the packet is on the dresser, and it’s at least two feet away, and Eames doesn’t think he can bear to get up right now. He turns to the point man.

 

“Jesus, Arthur, I need to save your life more often.”

 

Arthur smiles slyly. “I think that can be arranged.”

 

 


End file.
